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Monday, September 05, 2016

heat

i don't like the heat. don't care if it
is dry heat or wet heat i don't like it.

i don't like that everyone else is
telling me how nice and how wonderful it is.

i hate it.

i positively loathe it when it becomes
heatwave city and we get those last few dying days of summer that
appear when the nights are closing in and we should be enjoying the
joys of autumn leading to the sharp bracing pleasure of winter.

guess who hasn't enjoyed the last few
days of our indian summer heatwave.

oh that would be me.

it is true that part of the problem is
that i am a fat bastard.

a fat bastard who sweats a lot.

so sweltering sizzling weather is my
enemy.

i have felt faint. i have felt like a
sausage in a microwave ready to pop as i overcook. i have felt
drained and heavy limbed as the sun bleached out energy. every
movement a conscious effort, lethargic, woozy and short tempered a
new, even more, unlikeable version of me: short tempered misery guts.

let us not forget the watery eyes and
sneezy nose as i spend a week or two as the victim of hay fever, the
nights of not being able to sleep because i am unable to get
comfortable in the stifling heat that turns a place into a cheap
sauna, when i do sleep i wake to oppressive heat already half dead
knowing that when i go out the heat will punch me in the face like a
sledgehammer bouncing off an anvil.

days spent longing for a break in the
weather. a downpour of rain to freshen and cool the air, when it does
come it is over in a flash and before you know the street is as dry
as a bone again. reading news rags and wishing that the horror
weather stories of the daily mail and daily express just for once
contained a modicum of truth (little chance – on anything they
write to be honest). looking to the skies and hoping that a lone
cloud is a precursor to a storm.

yes i fucking hate summer.

not even the joyous pleasure of pretty
women in skimpy clothes can take away from the fact that it is
summer. in fact it is a cruel game on behalf of the creator that at
the time when ladies strut and preen their stuff i am at my least
interested. come winter when covered in puffa jackets and woollen
jackets i am ready – but nothing to see.

then just when you think that is it –
all over autumn here we get blistering indian summer.